


Don't Tug on Superman's Cape

by orphan_account



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy Hargrove Tries to Be a Better Person, Christmas, Gen, Good Parent Jim "Chief" Hopper, Hurt Billy Hargrove, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Jim "Chief" Hopper, Sandwiches, Snow, Soft Billy Hargrove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22757212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Hey, Hargrove," the chief calls, and the body that's been dragging itself seeminglyawayfrom its place of residence freezes.With a hiss, Billy slowly turns his body to face the car, and under the golden streetlights the bruises spanning across his chest and jaw and cheek - are pitch black yet glow a faint yellow."Fuck off, chief," he grits through his teeth, "I didn't do anything wrong this time. Didn't smack around a poor bastard, and I wasn't speeding because if you haven't noticed; I don't have my car. So move on."A piece to fill the 'Bruises' square on my prompt bingo card.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Jim "Chief" Hopper
Comments: 11
Kudos: 202





	Don't Tug on Superman's Cape

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so points - 
> 
> 1) This is my first work for this fandom
> 
> 2) I'm 16 and can't write for my life
> 
> 3) This is unedited.
> 
> 4) Enjoy, I guess?
> 
> P.S I might add more to this if anyone wants some motherly Joyce Byers.

Chief Jim Hopper usually worked two full shifts on Christmas day, the hours stretching further and further into the graveyard shift as he scoured the town of Hawkins in his police cruiser; taking drunk teenagers home and explaining the state of the kids to their parents. While he'd like to lie and say that it was out of the good of his heart, a part of him knew he was selfish for ever thinking that working all of Christmas wasn't a half-assed distraction from Sara - his beautiful baby girl, whose navy blue hair-tie had wriggled around his wrist and left a soft red indent when he rolled it off at night.

But he has Jane now, and Joyce, and heck; maybe even Will and Jonathan if they'll have him. And he still misses his ex wife and his daughter, but he's got a new little girl who - while filling the void in Hopper's life - doesn't replace Sara whatsoever. They're both forces of nature in different ways, and Chief Jim Hopper will always have two daughters that take up an equal amount of space in his heart.

He thinks that because he's so used to driving around Hawkins late on Christmas day, it's become necessary for him to do so, even for a few hours; even when surrounded by three amazing kids and a beautiful woman whose fierce and surprising and loves Hopper with an appropriate amount of her heart - because obviously she loves her children more and he can't and won't ever blame her for it.

He'd kill someone if they hurt Jane.

It's the pull of the familiarity that guides him out to his car, because he doesn't want to leave Joyce to look after three kids on her own; and when he tells her this she simply grins up at him and places a tupperware box in his palms, and sealed in plastic wrap are four sandwiches cut into eight triangles at two a piece - built from scraps of leftover turkey and bits of ham and stuffing that decorated the bottom of the oven tins. His heart flutters, and as he bends down to place a chaste kiss to her cheek she presses a thermos flask to his chest.

"It's tea," she speaks matter-of-factly, "you're going out in the cold, and I take care of my boys. You're no different just because you're a grown man."

Hopper dopily grins at her, eyes soft and moustache hairs twitching. 

Jonathan's little 'so am I!' goes unnoticed by Joyce and Hopper, but sends Jane into a fit of giggles and causes Will to snort air harshly through his nostrils.

"I feel privileged that you classify me as one of your boys," he admits, pink tones dusting along his cheeks as he fiddles with the lid of the thermos. If the chief even slightly tipped his head to the side, he would have seen both Will and Jonathan wiggling their eyebrows; Jane watching them with a happy little smirk as her eyes glint under the kitchen light. One of Sara's hair ties was looped around her wrist, her brunette hair hanging loosely down around her shoulders; brushing against one of Jim's red plaid shirts and decorated with a pair of novelty reindeer antlers.

"You should," the woman nods, lifting her hands to cup Hoppers face in her palms. He continues to stare down at her, "I'm a good person to be loved by."

The man bites at his bottom lip, having only eyes for Joyce Byers.

"I know," he hums, and smiles into the kiss as she pushes herself up on tiptoes to reach him. Her lips are slightly chapped and she tastes like warm gravy and cheap white wine, and Hopper is intoxicated on how she smells like lemongrass dish soap and the strawberry cheesecake she'd made for dessert.

In one hand is the tupperware box and in the other is the flask, and they both almost drop to the floor with the reminder that there were other people - teenagers - in the room.

"Ew!" Will cries, making a show of covering his eyes. Jonathan laughs from the back of his throat as he wraps an arm around his little brother, holding his own hand over the kid's knuckles and pretending to make sure his eyes are properly shielded. Jane however - much more taken with the romanticism that occurs between her dad and Joyce - bounces in her chair; resting her chin in the palm of her hand.

"Awww!" 

It's all so domestic, Hopper says to himself as his eyes flicker shut and he presses closer to Joyce. Jane's books are littered across the table and she's in one of his old shirts, Jonathan having turned up her sleeves and Will taking the time to catch her up to speed with the current curriculum of Hawkins High for her start next semester. Memories of Sara bind both Hopper and Jane with material coated elastic, Jane without a sister and Hopper without a daughter, but they know that she's there.

Hopper never thought he'd have this.

Joyce pulls away.

"Go make sure some kids get home okay," she whispers against his lips, "and I'll make sure that ours get to bed."

Ours.

_Ours. Ours. Ours._

_Wow._

"There's a throw blanket over the back of the chair, take it so you can chuck it over your legs if you start to feel a chill," she calls as he passes the livingroom furniture, and if Hopper rocks back on his heel with a soft smile on his face and butterflies in his stomach as he scoops up the multicoloured throw - she doesn't need to know.

"Save me a slice of cheesecake, Byers!" he calls, and closes the front door quietly behind him.

\---

It's been an hour of driving through the town, up and down streets and scanning the sidewalks for stumbling teenagers - usually affected by the unsteady-ness of Vodka-Red Bull and Peach Schnapps. He's had the privilege of returning two kids to their rightful homes, a pair of teenage girls walking hand in hand and whispering such words under their breath that would get them beaten to a pulp in the outskirts of Hawkins; that is if the sexist homophobes didn't get there first and fetishize the girls for pure entertainment.

The town has never been fair to those who are different, and Jim Hopper hates the fact. 

Taking the girls home doesn't take very long - twenty minutes in total, what with both of the teenagers living within a block of one another - and as he's pulling out of the cul-de-sac with nothing in his car but himself, a half empty flask, and six of his eight sandwiches left in the tupperware box; the sight of yet another teenager stumbling down the road catches his attention. 

It's the Hargrove boy, Hopper believes as he gets closer - and he can tell because of the shirt that's open to his belly button and the leather jacket that sits square like it was tailored for Billy's shoulders. 

The dirty blond mullet also kind of gave it away.

Limping down the sidewalk, Billy Hargrove looks like a man on a mission; but Jim isn't exactly sure if it's to fight or flee from how the kid is holding himself. There's a faint split up the side of his skinny jeans, and the material near the knees is split and fraying and the skin beneath is leaking crimson. Upon further inspection - which Hopper finds difficult to do at a distance and under the hue of the streetlights - he's shaking like a leaf.

The police cruiser slowly comes to a stop, and Hopper rolls down his window before remembering how he's willingly inviting the biting cold into his vehicle. Wind sloshes in his ears and nips at his nose, numbing his cheeks and jaw in the mere seconds it has to follow the curves of his face.

"Hey, Hargrove," the chief calls, and the body that's been dragging itself seemingly _away_ from its place of residence freezes. 

With a hiss, Billy slowly turns his body to face the car, and under the golden streetlights the bruises spanning across his chest and jaw and cheek - are pitch black yet glow a faint yellow. 

"Fuck off, chief," he grits through his teeth, "I didn't do anything wrong this time. Didn't smack around a poor bastard, and I wasn't speeding because if you haven't noticed; I don't have my car. So move on."

To be frank, Jim should have expected the level of hostility. From what he's heard about William Hargrove, the boy is also a force of nature - but not in the way Jane can track people and move stuff with her mind, how Sara fought until her last breath with a smile and a box of cheap crayons by her side, or how Joyce cares for people in such a way that it steals the air from your lungs and leaves you utterly breathless. 

Billy liked conflict. Preferred to bash heads and come out of the situation with a bloody nose, and he loved to run his mouth off any time that he could; especially when Hopper had pulled him over twice for speeding. His features were sharp and he held himself in a way that screamed _'dont fuck with me or I'll rip your testicles from your body and shove them down your throat'_ , but this Billy was different. The bravado was almost gone, the pieces left held in place only by sarcasm and tattered skinny jeans.

Hopper rests his elbow by the window of his car, and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"You're hurt, kid, at least let me take you to a hospital and get you checked out."

Billy scoffs, and it sounds like he's gargling water in the back of his throat.

"And try and explain why I've got a new tattoo in the shape of a size ten boot on my chest?" the boy simpers, shaking his head before turning around and letting his feet crunch in the snow, "I'm fine… thanks for your concern."

"A friend then," Hopper interjects, "and I'll give you somewhere to sleep tonight if you need it."

_I don't trust you, Hargrove. But you're seventeen and look like you're about to keel over, so let's hope this goes well._

"You have a fuckton of reasons not to trust me," Billy bites, shaking his head carefully as if afraid to irritate his injuries, "why are you doing this?"

Hopper wouldn't if the situation was any different. He really wouldn't. He can't imagine letting Hargrove into his car or even being sensitive to the boy that's dragging himself down the street; but Joyce would kill him, and regardless of his past actions - Joyce would still probably choose to take the boy in.

"I guess… because you're cold. You look tired, Billy," and the chief of police watches how the teen perks up at his first name falling from the man's lips, "and I've got sandwiches and tea, and a really good friend with a big heart who'll patch you up. It won't smooth over what you've done in your time at Hawkins, but you look like you're about to collapse; and Joyce would kill me if I didn't get you help."

Billy blinks.

"Joyce? As in… Joyce Byers?"

The older male sincerely hopes that the smart mouthed ass watching him from the roadside doesn't say a single wrong word, or else he's driving off and he'll deal with the woman's wrath if he has to.

"Nice lady," he starts, "her eldest thinks I'm an asshole and bowl-cut is in my little sister's Dungeons and Dragons party. I don't think any of them would find it comfortable me being in their house, plus being drugged and knocked out and laying in the middle of Joyce's living room doesn't really spark me as a memory I'd want to re-live. So again, thanks for giving a shit; but you really don't have to."

He doesn't dare bring up the fact that he almost ran the small one's friends over in his Camaro. He's already on thin ice .

Hargrove pauses before he speaks again.

"Actually, I'd prefer if you forgot this whole thing happened and you went on with your night," Billy sighs, lifting his arm painfully to run a hand through his curls. They're tatted and painful and his fingers are blocked by knots, but he's too tired to force his way through them, "I'll find somewhere." 

"Yeah," Hopper starts, "the Byers house. Just get in the car, kid. It's to hit minus twenty tonight, and if I find your dead body at the edge of the road I'm gonna fine you for littering."

Blue eyes pierce into Jim's soul, and the corner of the teenagers mouth twitches upward.

"You're such a fucking dad, Jesus Christ-" Billy hisses, making his way to the police cruiser and circling around the bonnet; before opening the door and clambering in beside Hopper.

Now that they're closer, the chief can confirm that Hargrove isn't remotely drunk.

"So, about those sandwiches?"

\---

Hopper takes the backroads to get to Joyce's house. 

They're quicker due to the lack of traffic, and Billy is doing a solid job of bleeding out steadily onto the cruiser seats. Over the space of ten minutes, Hargrove has demolished three of the six remaining sandwiches, scarfing them down in a way that reminded Hopper of a starving animal.

"Do your parents feed you, kid?" he chuckles, watching how the teenagers hand slowly stops unscrewing the lid of the thermos. The knuckles of his right hand are scratched and bloody, the dried up brown stains matching the hints of wool in the throw that covers the boys legs.

Jim hates to say it, but that was enough of an answer to warrant further suspicion.

"Yeah, they do," he grits, and almost like it causes him great pain to do so; he clasps the tupperware box shut and sets the three remaining sandwiches on the console between him and the chief. Billy's hands shiver in the cold, or maybe it's still the shock from being beaten up so badly that has him shaking the framework of Hopper's car. 

"I didn't mean-" 

"It's fine," the boy replies, voice not quite harsh, yet almost... wary around the edges. It's a quick dismissal, and both of them are left in silence; apart from the occasional howl of the wind outside and how the snow batters against the window.

Jim has made it awkward, because of course he has. It's all he's good for, besides fighting interdimensional monsters and being underpaid for the shit he has to deal with as a cop. However he has to give it to himself, this is the first time that Billy Hargrove has sat in his police cruiser, and the highschool student isn't growling or threatening to take Jim's head off with his bare hands.

"What music are you into?" the older of the pair asks in an attempt to fill the silence. Billy takes a sip of tea from the flasks cap, and his body sinks against the passenger seat like he's a puppet whose strings have just been severed.

"Def Leppard, Mötley Crüe, Van Halen, Poison, Whitesnake. Rock, mainly."

And that's more of an answer than Hop was expecting.

"Damn kid, okay. I've never really been one for rock music, so I don't have any cassettes. Sorry about that."

Billy's eyebrows raise, and his eyes stay trained to the bottom of the makeshift cup.

"S'fine."

A pregnant pause hangs in the air.

"I have country music?"

"Of-fucking-course you would."

"Oi!" Hopper chuckles, "Jim Croce is the man, my daughter Jane loves his music too!"

Billy rolls his eyes, giving a toothy smile of disbelief as he shakes his head. He ignores the fact that Jim has a daughter, something he didn't actually know.

"Why, because 'You don't mess around with Jim' is your ballad? _Please_ ," and as he laughs, Hopper switches on the radio and fiddles with the cassette; before pressing play and letting the singer's voice flow into their ears.

_Uptown got its hustlers  
The bowery got it's bums  
42nd street got big Jim walker  
He's a pool shootin' son of a gun._

"You know he dies at the end of the song, right?" Hargrove questions, "McCoy ambushes him when he comes into the bar and bloodies him up so badly that the only thing not red is the soles of his feet."

Hopper hums.

"It's also pretty funny, because your full name is William if I'm correct," the teenager nods as Hopper peels his eyes from the road momentarily, "so really, if you think about it - Jim and Willie could be us."

Billy bites at his lip so fiercely that copper fills his mouth.

"I don't think I'd ambush you," he says softly, the little silver feather dangling from his ear glinting under the passing streetlight.

"No?"

A pause.

"No."

Jim begins to drum on the wheel, and Billy's eyes train up the man's arms before halting at his wrists.

"Is that your daughter's?" he asks, and Hopper quickly glances down at where the second of two navy hair-ties bite into his skin. The chief nods, a sad smile at his lips. 

"It was, yeah," he sighs, and Billy bites the inside of his cheek.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

The teenager fiddles with something at his chest, before holding up a pendant in the half-light.

"It's Saint Christopher, belonged to my mom…"

"I guess we both have someone to miss."

"Yeah, I guess."

Hopper bites at his bottom lip.

"Eat the rest of the sandwiches, kid," he tells Billy, "Joyce'll kill me if you show up to her door wounded and with an empty stomach."

It takes a few moments, but Billy slowly reaches his hand out as if waiting for them to be ripped away; and when they aren't he pulls the box onto his lap and begins to unwrap his fourth sandwich.

The snow falls heavier.

_You don't tug on superman's cape  
You don't spit into the wind  
You don't pull the mask off that old lone ranger  
And you don't mess around with Jim._

**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on my tumblr rickysring


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